A Taste of La Dolce Vita

Booking a luxury holiday was completely out of character, but was there a worrying secret behind her mother’s invitation?

- Catherine Isaac

I was surprised when my mum agreed to go on a wine-tasting tour, given that the last time she saw me order a double G&T, she was compelled to remind me of the perils of binge drinking.

‘When in Rome,’ she says, sloshing back a Bardolino.

We are actually 400 miles from Rome, mini-breaking in a former Renaissance palace that sits high on a rock above the turquoise water of Lake Garda. The stone walls are dotted with lipstick-red geraniums, palm trees rise above the terrace and sports cars in bright shades line up outside.

This is not the standard of accommodation Mum is used to

This is not the standard of accommodation that Mum is used to. In the 12 years since my dad died, to say she has been cautious with his pension is an understatement. She trades predominantly in money-off coupons and only puts the heating on if icicles are forming inside the windows. Her last holiday was to Llandudno, where she shared a twin room in a B&B with her friend Marjorie, until they were upgraded to a ‘deluxe suite’, which meant they got net curtains.

‘Could we try the fizzy one?’ she asks the wine guide.

‘Of course,’ he replies, pouring some award-winning Spumante Brut and inviting her to sip.

‘Very nice,’ she nods, pursing her lips like she’s Oz Clarke.

The showroom has a view directly over the vineyard, where rows of tumbling grapevines ripple in the haze. There are only two other people browsing the shelves, an impossibly stylish couple in cool shades of designer linen.

As our guide disappears to fetch the next bottle, my gaze slides to Mum. I wonder if this – the rare occasion of her being squiffy – is my opportunity to raise an issue that has been burning me up since we arrived.